Though the subject matter seems foolproof, this undisciplined book is sunk by numerous errors, tortured prose style (“Shaw then traversed into a realm of familiarity to those who have viewed the work of one of filmdom’s master directors…”), irrelevant tangents (e.g., an amusing anecdote about Basil Rathbone that has nothing to do with film noir), and regurgitation of mistaken conventional wisdom, such as the belief that Anthony Boucher was hostile to the works of Raymond Chandler, Chandler having reached that conclusion based on a book review he hadn’t even read.

Jon L. Breen

Though the subject matter seems foolproof, this undisciplined book is sunk by numerous errors, tortured prose style (“Shaw then traversed into a realm of familiarity to those who have viewed the work of one of filmdom’s master directors…”), irrelevant tangents (e.g., an amusing anecdote about Basil Rathbone that has nothing to do with film noir), and regurgitation of mistaken conventional wisdom, such as the belief that Anthony Boucher was hostile to the works of Raymond Chandler, Chandler having reached that conclusion based on a book review he hadn’t even read.